How Sweet
by Kraken1
Summary: Emotions can be misunderstood, but, sometimes, you just can't let go. No matter what, you can't let go. (complete. Rated for a vivid fantasy and language)


"How Sweet."   
Note: Not mine. Don't sue.   
  
  
  
  


I've tried to hate you for it, you know. I've tried to hate you, but I can't. Oh, sure, you've been--are--insufferable sometimes. Stubborn, prissy, holier-than-thou ethics combined with that unrelentless determination to get whatever you want. It drives me crazy. Crazy with love.

Aren't I a sappy bad poet, moping about unrequited true love? Oldest fucking teen angst in the world. But you complete me. You always have. I'm rash, quick-on-my-feet, ready to make a split-second decision based upon intuition alone when you're paralysed, out of your element. But I have no idea how you manage to research everything, to think something through so thoroughly that you can discover every possible outcome. But not only that. I loosen you up; allow you to have fun every once in a while, but you keep me level, remind me to succeed instead of just dreaming.

Do you know how many times I've tried to hate you? It was easier when we were children, when I could lose control of my emotions and let them overwhelm me, acting so well that even I almost believed it. But now that logical, rational, anal-retentive part of my brain that you taught me about tells me that it's not your fault, that it's some gene or hormone or fucking experience.

But, you know, that year we were together, it was like magic, like a permanent cheering charm directed my way. The feel of your skin against mine sent shivers through me; your chaste kisses inflamed my body, leaving me to dream about you every night as I lay awake in bed, every morning as I showered, every afternoon, as the minutes before class passed. And, if there was any lack of lust on your part of the relationship, I attributed that to a difference in gender, that women didn't want it as much as men. Fucking piece of bullshit rationalization.

And you say you love me, just not in _that_ way. You would, if you could, but you can't. What's the fucking difference? A piece of ugly meat between the legs and a bit of blood letting every month? Part of me just wants to cut the fucking thing off, make myself attractive to you, but I can't. I don't know whether it's society or genetic or some stupid pride thing, but I can't. I can't fucking do it.

But maybe, just maybe, I could take a soft strand of Cho's hair, and mix it into that potion, remember? That potion we made to sneak into Slytherin's dungeon, listening to Draco. And remember? When the hair that you had turned out to be cat hair, and you had to be sent to the infirmary? Remember everything? And maybe, just for an hour, I could become her, so that I could lay beside you, holding you, naked flesh pressed together, and fall asleep in your soft, warm embrace. Then wake up to see you, and press my lips against yours, so gently. But I can't. I can't fucking do it. Because it'd be lying to you. And, more than anything, more than any desire I have, I love you.

And you thought you loved me. You danced with Krum, just to make me jealous, so I could realize the way I felt about you. But I already knew, you know. I already knew. And you thought you knew. You loved me, sure, but you weren't _in_ love with me, you just mistook one emotion for the other, not realizing that there was a difference to you, because you are different. But with Krum, I knew I had a chance. I knew that I could have a chance with you, the woman I loved. Now, every time I see Cho and you holding hands, kissing ever-so-passionately, juxtaposed against my memories of the chaste kiss, I know that there's nothing I can do. That it's impossible. And I know that Cho is so much like me: headstrong, quick-witted, emotional... the perfect completion to you, just like I was. Except she has two xes, and I have a fucking y. It's like telling me that I'm a fucking genetic defect, that you can't fucking love me because of my father's fucking sperm.

And you do fucking love me. How fucking sweet. Maybe I don't want to love you; maybe I should hate you for everything you've done.

I can feel the breeze blowing through my long hair--this high up, the wind is strong at night. God, it's a long way down. The instant you look down, the sudden vertigo nearly sweeps you off your feet, and your stomach tightens into a ball, forcing any food up because it has nowhere else to go. But I'm moving closer. You did everything in your power to make me love you. To make me fall head over heels for you, before telling me that I couldn't have you. That for you it was just confusion. It wasn't confusion for me. I loved you, but now? I just hate you. Maybe I should, as my final revenge, leap off the top of Griffindor tower: one last spectacular dive into the mother of us all, Earth. Have you consumed with guilt over my death, thinking of all the ways you could have stopped me, lying awake every night thinking what if? what if? what if? Consumed with the thought of me leaping off the tower every waking moment, imagining what I was thinking up here, all alone. Dreaming of my face, in its last few moments of terror before spattering against the ground like water. And I know you're always the first one to go for a walk in the morning around Griffindor tower, and I can just imagine your horror at finding the body, then discovering it's me, the vision burned into your retina so deeply that every time you close your eyes you see me splattered across the ground. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.

  
  
  
  


I love you.


End file.
